Page 6 of Marriage is a Shore Thing
“Why not?”
Her jaw clenches as she shakes her head.
“I know it’s never going to happen, because we’re going our separate ways after this, but if I had the chance to chip away at that armor and really know you, I’d want to marry you in a minute,” I tell her, more than a little drunk but the words still feeling right in my chest.
“You’d regret it.”
Though her sentence is a challenge, her tone softens into a surrendering murmur. My fingers graze the back of her hand, and her posture relaxes even more.
I lean closer, my gaze never leaving hers. “No, darlin’. I don’t think I would.”
A sharp voice snaps me back to the hot street. “Is this man bothering you, Carol?”
I flip around too quickly, and there she is.
Geneva.
My wife.
The sight of her unexpectedly knocks the wind out of me. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, and an oversized tee nearly eclipses her tiny shorts. Her arms are deceptively loose at her sides, but I know she could strike quicker than a viper. It takes my cloudy brain a few seconds to process the graphic on her shirt—a hissing opossum baring its teeth below the wordsFirst of all, I’m a delight.
My head shakes with a growing grin when Geneva’s expression gives nothing away. She simply stares me down—fierce and breathtaking at the same time.
Absolutely freaking perfect.
I roll my shoulders back, preparing. As an emergency physician, I’ve had to tell countless families the hardest newsthey’ll ever hear. I can tell Geneva that we’re accidentally married.
Because the signatures we laughingly scribbled at thebeginningof the ceremony weren’t just for the bill. We’d unknowingly signed a digital wedding certificate—brand new to the Chapel of Endless Love and very much legally binding.
“Hey, darlin’.” A smile quirks the corner of my mouth. “We need to talk.”
three
Geneva
Itry—and fail—to mitigate the effect Van’s smile has on my heart rate. But while that foolish organ is skipping like a gleeful teen, my brain is collected enough to know we can’t have this conversation here. Carol Cook, the resident queen of gossip, is visiting my neighbor, Wendy. Though Van’s presence at my house will be all over town before nightfall, the other part of this equationneedsto remain buried—forever.
“Come inside,” I say, turning around.
I don’t look back. I don’t allow myself to dwell on how Van looks impossibly good in his white shirt and shorts, his hair cut and cleanly shaven. The fact that he seems to be doing better soothes the ache I’ve had ever since I learnedwhyhe looked disheveled in Vegas.
It’d been so hard not to call him after finding out. At random intervals, I’d open the private investigator’s report to stare at hisphone number. Once or twice, I even typed it into my phone, only to come to my senses and delete it. Even now, I want to ask if he’s okay, but that’s not the reason why Van is here—which, honestly, is good. Having me in his life would only complicate things for him, and that’s the last thing he needs right now.
I tighten my muscles, preparing to take this blow like the many I’ve weathered before.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say when Van closes the front door. It’s been broken for a year now, so it takes him two tries to set it correctly into its hinges. “Where are the papers?”
“What papers?” he asks with a slight quirk of his brow.
Heat splinters over my collarbones when I catch a whiff of his distracting cologne—a warm, woodsy scent with a crisp apple top note. Leave it to Van to wear a cologne that’s masculine with a hint of sweetness.
I clench my fingers to regain control.
Attraction is physiological, I remind myself.Just like being afraid when you see a snake. It means nothing.
Van’s gaze flicks to my fists before returning to my face. “What papers, Gen?”
I usually bristle when people truncate my name. No one calls me anything but Geneva. I also detest pet names,especiallygiven by men. But just like when Van calls medarlin’, I don’t correct him.
